A Counterfeit Of Death
by Caterpi
Summary: Whisked from his universe in unknown circumstances, Harry learns of blood and compromises in an unforgiving world. A tale of slavery, magic, travel, war and searching for a home. "The beating sun, whiplash punishing stragglers and occasional cryptic cry merged with the smells of sweat and dirt and refuse clinging to those sharing his fate."
1. Long March Into Spring

_**A/N: Don't own, no promises on update schedule, pairing undecided, not slash, not Harry/Dany. Hope you enjoy.**_

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Pure air and dry vegetation tickled his nose, delighting his urban senses. It could have been paradise but an unfortunately thrumming headache pointed towards a more earthly set of circumstances.

-"Bollocks." Harry grumbled opening his eyes.

Adjusting to a blazingly sunny day, he felt like a drunk weightlifter had targeted his skull in a game of darts. The moment eventually passed and he saw the blood dripping slowly on the rock he had used as a pillow.

-"Explains that..." he mumbled.

Harry gingerly rose to a kneeling position and began observing the world around him. He found himself in an endless plain of grass and arid shrubs. Instincts honed by war and _Auror _training pushed him to seek the comfort of his magical wand, but shocking emptiness answered the confident flick of his wrist. It felt like missing a step on a well known staircase.

Harry Potter was a wizard and an officer in training of the most prestigious British magical police force. His wand should have been safely strapped to his wrist by its holster. It was not. He was alone, hurt and exposed in unknown territory and had no way to contact anyone.

A cold and crippling panic paralysed him. He remained dumbfounded until a low rumbling noise at his back pulled him out of his trepidation.

Struggling not to loose his breakfast as he pushed to his feet, he turned around with a quick and jerky motion. He kept his eyes opened through the dizziness and wondered if the damage to his head had been much more serious than anticipated. A horde of chanting horse-mounted _Conan The Barbarian_ impersonators were charging straight at him.

-"Bollocks!", Harry repeated. He was not usually in the habit of swearing -his friend Hermione had certainly seen to that over the years- but nothing about this situation was usual.

Disoriented, his thoughts still muddled, he did not make any attempt to fight or run as five men detached from the group and surrounded him. They shouted in a guttural tongue and waved rough lassos, aiming to catch him while they circled his position. Once the rope bit into his arms, they guided him forcefully toward the host. There, hundreds of moving horses absorbed them into their complex choreography. None of the Centor-like hooligans had lost any speed during the whole operation. In other circumstances, Harry would have been impressed.

Within a minute, he was jogging behind the convoy, restraints still attached to the saddle of his captor. He did not understand what they screamed but was doubtful the man would slow down and avoid hauling him to his death if he fell.

Eyes wide, he grabbed the rope with two hands, perilously adjusting to the uneven and matted terrain of the deserted plains. _Thank you Oliver Wood_, he thought, grateful for the hours of balance and endurance training he had suffered under his over-enthusiastic _Quidditch_ captain's influence.

Some time later, once confident he would survive his precarious position, Harry began assessing the situation. He saw others like him running behind the horde. Some captives were leashed to riders or chariots while the luckier ones were cramped into carts. It was _not_ reassuring. This rag-wearing group of dirty and underfed souls looked at the threshold between life and death. None of them would have appeared conspicuous in the long-term wards of _Azkaban_ prison. Were they prisoners? Hostages? Slaves?

They abruptly passed over a patch of dirt. The horses raised thick dusty clouds and the prisoners were hard-pressed to keep pace while coughing uncontrollably. The riders never slowed.

The first long day Harry Potter would spend in this inhospitable desert had only just begun.

Initially, he looked for a solution. He searched for his wand and attempted to use his magic but achieved nothing. Laboriously patting his pockets, he could not find anything useful. Harry wore his normal office clothes: a white buttoned-up shirt with a magically reinforced dark grey vest, dark grey trousers and black _dragonscale_ boots. Those were a gift from George. Surprisingly, Harry was still _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_ Investor Of The Year every year.

Later, panting and light-headed from his untreated wound, he tried to understand. What did these people think they were doing? How did he arrive here? Where _was_ here? Despite racking his brain, he could not come to any conclusion.

He remembered arriving at the _Department of Magical Law Enforcement._ His morning shift was under _Auror_ Proodfoot. He could not have been called to the field since he didn't have his standard-issue _Auror_'s robes. Curious, he tried feeling any magic around him. There was no spell or ward in his vicinity.

Finally, as minutes crept into hours, his mind became empty. His world narrowed to the repetitive motions of pushing one foot in front of the other. The beating sun, whiplash punishing stragglers and occasional cryptic cry merged with the smells of sweat and dirt and refuse clinging to those sharing his fate. Thrumming his skull at the rhythm of the marching horde.

An eternity later, the sun deigned to lower on the grassy plains and the caravan halted. Harry immediately collapsed, filling his burning lungs with deep shuddering breaths. A rider dismounted and hauled him to his feet soon after, demanding something in a booming voice.

-"Uh... I don't... understand.", Harry said between big gulps of air. He felt like emptying his stomach right onto the warrior's feet but held back miraculously.

An annoyed look crossed the barbarian's scarred face. Grunting, he brought him to a cart and stopped near a tied man sitting at the back. He barked an order and observed expectantly. Doubtful, the man said something that sounded like a question in a different language. Harry winced and shook his head from side to side. The prisoner asked again, speaking a slightly more familiar tongue, like an ancient form of English or a Nordic dialect.

-"Do you speak English ?" Harry asked. The man's brow furrowed. "Me talk English... no? Uh, Français? Comprendre?" He was getting desperate. The rider yelled and the alarmed prisoner shook his head, explaining frantically.

Harry could not recognise any language the hundreds of people spoke and it thoroughly annoyed his captors. In short order, the scarred rider detached his ropes and dragged him around.

A fat grey man seated on a cart delicately handed him a crumpled parchment sheet. After a quick examination, he could identify an alphabet resembling the one he knew, but could not make any sense of it.

-"I don't..." Harry began.

The man snatched the parchment away, stashing it back carefully. Rummaging, he produced a small wax tablet surrounded by a wooden frame. Symbols were engraved with a stylus but again, Harry had no idea what they meant. 'Mister Pince' read the confusion in his eyes and grabbed the tablet back to be tucked away jealously with his other treasures. He then conversed with the aggravated whip-carrying rider. Did they mistake him for a scholar of some sort? His clothes were certainly finer than any he had seen around. That could be a problem.

The brutish man yanked him near a horse, pointed at it, and crossed his arms. Confused, Harry made to mount it but was soundly slapped on the head. Hand gripped around his whip, 'Scar' grunted and mimed taking off a saddle. Harry's Gryffindor pride was boiling.

-"If I had my wand, I would shove your whip so far up your arse you would smell only leather for the rest of your life." Harry said, locking eyes with the significantly taller and broader man.

Growling, he gestured again. The threat was clear.

Resigned to bide his time but unfamiliar with the procedure, Harry looked under the horse. He followed the saddle's girth, probing for a point where it could be unfastened. Before he managed anything, the other man took his arm and hauled him somewhere else. His cold eyes were glinting dangerously.

He pushed three small round object at him and crossed his arms again. A contemptuous little smile creased his lips. Harry rather had the impression he was mocking him.

-"No, I can't juggle either, you git!"

He was seconds away from throwing the balls at the rider's face when 'Scar' slapped his head again, almost bringing him to his knees.

By now, a solid crowd of onlookers had gathered. Someone approached and tossed a rusty short sword at Harry's feet. Glaring malevolently, the brute produced a wicked-looking curved blade from a strap at his back and sniggered. Harry readied himself to fight back and took a defensive stance. The suicidal stabbing of a giant snake notwithstanding, his experience with swordplay was sorely lacking. Dizzy with hunger after running for miles, he could barely stand and the back of his head was oozing blood again.

The near-by mob formed a large circle around them. Without warning, the man attacked.

Harry blocked a first blow that would have severed his neck, dashing sideways. The warrior's foot was slamming on his thigh well before he could plan a riposte. It felt like a lighting bolt travelled up his cramped leg. The fight was over. A wail escaped him as he fell and 'Scar' kicked him again to the crowd's cheerful jeering. Mercifully, darkness was quick to claim Harry's mind.

_.-=A=-=C=-.*.-=O=-=D=-._

Harry awoke painfully later that night. His mind still reeling, he resolved to take a careful inventory of his condition. No fresh blood was leaking from his head. It was a good sign. He prodded his chest and counted at least two cracked ribs. As a whole, his body felt bruised with a sprinkling of burning muscles. The articulations of his legs were gritty, like sandpaper had been inserted between his bones. Hopefully, passive magic would assist his normally sturdy constitution and the situation would remain manageable. Wizards, Harry knew, had a certain propensity to recover from blunt traumas and falls from brooms, even without the aid of potions. Though he would not have refused the help if any were on hand.

He caught himself thinking back longingly of his time in madam Pomfrey's infirmary. Tonight, his sleeping arrangements consisted of an uncomfortable patch of turf and his right wrist was fastened to a sturdy wooden cart. Sitting back as snugly as possible against a wheel, he realised the riders had taken his clothes, replacing them with a rough and itchy tunic. _Merlin's saggy... shit, shit, shit!_, he thought. Breathing heavily, Harry started choking as his parched throat protested its mistreatment.

_~'Calm yourself'_, a voice spoke gently in a lilting language.

He scanned the darkness to see a woman wearing dirty robes approach. She carried a pail filled with questionable water and a long wooden ladle. Once closer, he observed a kind and wrinkled face looking at him worriedly.

_~'Drink', s_he said gently, offering the ladle.

The water was not drawn from the freshest of stream, but he was grateful.

-"Thank you."

_~'Rest now, boy, you will need it.'_

Harry did not know what words she had used, but felt like he understood their intent. Her expression did not bode well as she walked away. And why should it? Unless he was mistaken, the barbarians had judged him incompetent in all areas of their daily work.

So the nightmare began. Every morning, a whip master woke him up as the old lady fed a piece of dry bread and a few sips of water to the captives. Once the horde was ready, they attached him to a saddle or at a wagon's back with long strings. A soul-crushing and body-battering walk on his bare feet would follow. The abrupt end was always as shocking to his system as the jerky start. When the blistering sun went down, they secured him against one of the carts. He was fed and watered -or what passed for it- and collapsed into exhaustion. Nights were cold, windy and miserable.

Days passing, Harry observed the dynamics of the group. At first it was a tool to plan his escape, then a distraction to avoid getting bored into an early grave. He made up categories of people and gave the more noticeable individuals nicknames.

In its majority, the host was composed of 'Riders'. The rider men would progress on horseback as their women and children crowded the better maintained wagons. 'Bushy boss' was the bearded and long-haired savage who seemed in charge. Harry was most acquainted with the slave handlers: 'Scar' who had taken a dislike to him, 'Grunt' and 'Gruntier'.

He named 'Carters' the captives who had been granted a spot on the rough wooden chariots. Some were never restrained. As far as he could tell, this group mostly comprised of non-rider children, young women and well-educated folks. 'Water Poppy', the old woman who fed him, was one of them.

At the bottom of the hierarchy, 'Walkers' earned their names every day at his side. Harry himself was the lowest of them. A bizarre young man who could speak only gibberish.

It was weeks before a stirring of hope lifted him from his hellish routine. One evening, He felt the knot tying him to the railings loosen slightly when he stretched his sore wrist. Now filled with agitation, he tugged and contorted his thumb until it was free. Harry frantically looked around, checking for witnesses. No one was paying him any attention so he kept his hand concealed, forcing himself to calm down and remain silent as he considered his options.

If he skirted around the cart at his back, he could easily escape into the plains. But assuming he didn't get re-captured, how long would he last alone? With no provisions or equipment but the tunic on his back, the desert would be a death sentence. Conversely, he could wait for night-time and sneak into the camp. It would mean a chance to find his clothes, some weapon or -dare he hope- a wand... Any focus for his magic would do and the opportunity might never present again. Harry had never been one to waste good fortune. Recovered from his injuries as much as he could ever be without assistance, he felt ready. He would bide his time and take a short nap to gather his forces.

By the time he opened his eyes, the encampment was plunged into darkness. Laboured snores and cold gusts of wind formed an uneasy harmony, coating the thick blanket of wild silences.

To his left, he could spot other carriages where the Walkers were bound. Straight ahead, Carters huddled around the dying ambers of a small fire. Wood was sparse and not much had been wasted on prisoners. Further behind them, a line of wagons obscured his vision of the camp, but he saw the flickering light of a more furnished fire pit.

Steeling his resolve, Harry began to crawl quietly. Progress was slow. He failed to hold back a shiver of dread every time the slightest rustle disturbed the stillness of night.

Choosing a well covered spot in-between two wagons, Harry crossed the last few meters on bent legs and hid behind a wheel. He had not seen anyone guarding the camp's rear. It comforted his belief that he would only find the promise of a slow death in the barren plains.

Behind his hiding place, he saw tents mounted in a semi-circle around a massive camp-fire. At his side, the line of wagons stretched further before they curved toward the biggest of them. They encompassed a large area where the riders had attached their horses. _There_, Harry thought. Exploring the section with the finest canvas made the most sense. Loot would probably be found closer to the costly stallions. Charging forward would be a foolish endeavour. If he could sneak around the caravans and give the horses a wild berth before turning back toward the tents... It was possible.

He did not know how much time was left before sunrise. Stars shown dimly in the sky and allowed little visibility. _Hurry_. Longing for the safety of his invisibility cloak and cautiously circumventing the wagons, Harry executed his plan. It could have worked. It should have worked.

Tiptoeing around the last caravan, Harry neared the makeshift animal pen with confidence. Nearby, Scar was tending to a sick horse. Luck was not on his side and the rider spotted him immediately. Growling, the bulky barbarian rushed at him with his scythe-like weapon unsheathed.

-"Fuck!" Harry cried.

He threw himself back against the wagon, avoiding a fatal hit aimed at his neck.

_Damn but they really enjoy decapitating people_, Harry thought.

Restricting Scar's blade by grabbing his forearm, he was slowed and unable to parry a knee-shot to the belly. His weakened stomach exploded in protest and Harry folded to the ground. Gasping, he saw Scar shoot his arm back, preparing a hooking slash at his guts. He twisted reflexively and rolled under the wagon at the last second. The weapon sunk into dirt with an unnerving thump. While the savage took some time to dislodge his weapon, Harry scurried towards the horses.

Scar would not risk injuring precious mounts by hacking about with his scythe.

Enraged, he let go of his blade and charged. They dropped to the ground in a heap and a wild melee ensued. Despite Harry's desperate efforts, the man's weight and strength overwhelmed him in moments. Scar's hands found his throat.

Cold eyes locked on him, he squeezed.

~_'You do not deserve a _Dothraki_ death'_, he rumbled.

Harry's last hope was an accidental bout of magic.

It did not come.

~_'I will sell you, boy! And I will sell you cheap!'_

He saw colourful dancing shapes, then nothing.

_.-=A=-=C=-.*.-=O=-=D=-._

After the incident, the weeks blurred together. Scar kept a close eye on him and the malignant gleam of his glare was never far away. His only solace was an indomitable will not do die this way. A horse dragging him a few more miles and his body abandoned on some merlin-forsaken plain. There had been some who fell to never rise again. Some young, some old. Some who still looked in good shape. They just gave up. Harry could not resign himself to do that.

He was a survivor. People back home might not have been wrong when they chose to call him the 'boy-who-lived'. Harry had weathered murder attempts, ridicule, rejection and an isolated war against the darkest wizards of the century. He would endure this. Not knowing where he was or why, his sole occupation was to miss his friends and his home.

Harry missed his world and walked.

The sun rose behind and would set ahead to signal the end of the march. Slowly, the vegetation changed to become less dry. The climate more forgiving. Touches of colours other then green, grey and blue could even be seen occasionally. Encouraging feelings never lasted very long however.

Inevitably, they drew near to a town encased within high stone walls. It hugged a huge river that sectioned the horizon and would prevent any progression forward. He could see dark smoke billowing from the roofs of the harbour-city.

Harry's companions of fortune became agitated. "Selhorys", they whispered. Water Poppy's face was shadowed and resigned as she fed him. He could swear he caught a look of pity in the eyes of some Walkers when they glanced in his direction.

_When a skinny toothless bastard who smells of his own piss looks down to you, you know you're in trouble._


	2. Digging For Fire

_**A/N: Don't own, two small (shortened) quotes from OotP and DH, thanks for the follows/favs/reviews, hope you like it.**_

After weeks of being restrained by ropes, the cold and foreign iron shackles were biting painfully into his inflamed wrists. The resigned gathering of captives was advancing wordlessly, tinkling chains reverberating eerily along the corridors. Conscious of the watchful eyes of the guards escorting them, they walked with their head bowed and shoulders slumped.

Earlier that day, the host had arrived in proximity of Selhorys and the one they called Khal had signalled for a halt. Whip-carrying riders had then aligned all of the prisoners in order. Carters were at the front, and Harry at the very back. The day before, Scar had practised his very personal brand of makeover on Harry. Designed to make one look like they had been found dead in a ditch and slightly re-heated in a microwave. Admittedly, after a couple of months in the riders' company, it was not a very hard feat. Harry's hair had been haphazardly shaved to emphasise the ugly scar at the back of his head. Then his tunic had been traded for an equally ratty but tighter one, doing great disservice to his slight and half-starved frame. The satisfied smirk on Scar's face had made something ugly boil in Harry's guts. True hatred is a rare but dangerously energizing feeling.

Not long after, a small group of horse-mounted people had arrived with a colourfully dressed envoy from the city. The man had presented an intricately engraved chest filled with precious trinkets of gold and various stones to the Khal. As a 'gift', the rider had then gestured to the bound men and women, and soldiers had begun to gather and bind them with sturdy shackled chains. During the process, Harry had seen Scar converse with a bold fat man who was taking notes on the transaction.

Finally, the procession arrived in a big room furnished by three stools along the left and the right edges. In front of each stool was a small table topped by a few unrecognisable tools. All of the stands were manned by older, white-haired women with tattoos on their faces and slave collars around their necks. As the guards started to separate the chained groups into lines, Harry saw three men ahead. Two of them were dressed in colourful robes and resembled the envoy that parleyed with 'Bushy Boss'. They were followed by the scribe who was going over notes he had taken on his wax tablets. The jury took seat in front of a table adorned by fruits, nuts and wine. One of them used a candle to light up a stick of incense, warding off the squalid smells of the prisoners.

In time, all captives were brought in front of the three men, a small discussion would take place before an unfortunate soul was taken to a stool. Here, different things happened depending on what had been decided. Some would have their hair shaven, some were divested of their clothing to be analysed by the collared women's elder. Each one's ordeal ended by having a symbol forcefully tattooed on their face. When they were done, the new slave would be taken through a door at the back and the cycle would repeat.

After one or two long hours, the sordid sorting came to an end. Harry and eight other men were the only bound prisoners to remain unsorted in the room. All of his peers were grey-haired survivors who managed to withstand the arduous walk seemingly on shear stubbornness. Some of them were even maimed in some way. Two were missing fingers, one had lost an ear to the curved weapon of a rider and an older man kept squinting at everything, as if he couldn't quite see clearly.

The sorry lot was bunched together by the three remaining guards, and the scribe approached them briskly as the robed men left the room to see to the newly acquired slaves. An exchange of words followed that Harry understood very little about, but it did nothing to alleviate the ominous feeling hanging in the air.

_~'Are you sure about this one,'_ a guard said, gesturing in his direction, _'he doesn't look that bad... I mean, he looks young.'_

_~'Yes, yes, apparently he took a bad fall. Hit his head and became completely worthless'_

_~'Oh, yeah... he does seem a bit lost there doesn't he?'_

_~'They told me he only talks in nonsense Westerosi and doesn't know how to do anything, funny how that can happen...'_ the scribe said pensively,_ 'Anyway you lot, let's get moving, our friend will be waiting!'_

The disheartened group of men was then dragged through the long corridors again. After emerging inside of the city, they were paraded along the streets without pause. The strange spectacle didn't seem to attract anyone's attention, however, and they remained mostly unheeded by the population. This town looked like a dirty, cluttered mess to Harry. He imagined it was like a blend of old middle-eastern civilizations with ancient Rome in architecture and a healthy sprinkling of refuse on top.

Harry quickly realised that he had judged too soon.

After traversing many streets, they arrived at the worst area of the docks. Along the river, the smells of rotting fish and stagnant water were almost overwhelming to the senses. Dingy taverns and brothels were strewn on the other side. Mingling about, sailors and travellers who all appeared to be thoroughly drunk or worse populated the crass district. Harry even wondered if one particularly rugged-looking man, who drooped motionless on a crate, was even still alive. _Now this_, Harry thought as his now calloused naked feet slipped on the grimy, uneven pavement, _this is a shitehole._

They came in front of an open air circus comprised of an enormous cage surrounded by rough-looking elevated bleachers. The tiring group walked towards one of the big ratty tents at the back. Entering, the scribe was greeted by a small, flinty-looking man with cropped black hair and beady eyes. They argued for a short while until the man produced a bare fistful of silver coins, seemingly satisfying the now jovial scribe. At the back of the tent, the nine bound men were shoved inside an enclosure perched on top of a low wheeled cart. Guards took their shackles off through the bars before walking out with the scribe.

Silence was absolute as the short man exited the tent, leaving them sealed and closing the flap after him. The complete darkness was only lifted by what little light managed to pass through the thick canvas, highlighting the large iron bars that surrounded them. The inside of the cage was crammed, obviously not designed to accommodate nine adult human beings. After a moment to adjust, they all sat in circle with their backs to the bars, folded knees often touching to the sides.

Seemingly at once, multiple noises began to be heard. He could hear ragged breathing coming from one of the men directly in front of him. By his left, one started coughing uncontrollably. On his right, the near-blind old man was softly crying. Harry sat still, his arms hugging his legs tightly. His eyes opened, looking through the bars at some point in the distance, he didn't move. He didn't make a sound.

_How did I end up here?_ That question obsessed Harry most of all.

-"Fuck this!" Harry said, bowing his back as he laboriously got himself up. The cage was maintained firmly shut by big heavy chains that looped around the bars a few times. On the other side, there was a large and primitive iron padlock. _I can do this_, he thought, _they left us alone, don't give up! _

Contorting himself to move around, he signalled the long-haired man who was missing fingers to scoot over, taking his place in front of the door. The only people he had ever known to pick locks without using magic were the twins. Harry wished he had taken the time to learn the skill from them in detail, but then again, he had no tools with him. Fighting through the despair, he tried everything he could. He shook, hit, pulled and pushed until his hands were hurting. Harry made multiple attempts to provoke his magic to come to his aid, accidentally or otherwise, but they yielded nothing. Just like the many times he had tried before.

Exhausted and beaten, he sat down again. The others didn't say a word. His mind whirled as he buried his head in his shaky hands, and then, it came to him.

In truth, it had begun insinuating itself in the back of his mind from the very first day. Through weeks of walking it stayed there, lurking. It sometimes took advantage of a moment of weakness to haunt his waking thoughts: an insane idea. He had wondered if it was all a bad dream, a mind spell of some kind, or if he had simply gone insane. But now, with this city so strange and foreign, it took a full hold of his consciousness. _This is not my world_, he thought, _If you can travel trough time, it must be possible to travel trough worlds. So somehow, I am lost somewhere else... everything I know means nothing. Nobody is coming for me._

-"This is not my world", Harry whispered. Nothing answered him.

Much later, after the night had surely fallen outside, a young woman slipped into the tent with a small lantern. The low light of the short candle inside it was casting huge shadows around the space as she tip-toed in their direction. She was dressed in a long tunic circled by a multitude of colourful ribbons that were faded by time and use. Once she drew near, Harry could see that her face was marred by two deep gashes. One travelling from the right side of her jaw to her cheekbone, the other reaching diagonally from her left brow to the bottom of her ear. He could also just make out the outline of a tear tattooed under her left eye.

She whispered a few words to the prisoners before reaching into a burlap sack, taking out a few pieces of herbal bread with cheese and a water skin that she passed trough the bars. All of them answered a few words that he assumed were thanks, so Harry repeated them before starting to chew into his share mechanically. It was certainly the best meal he had eaten since awakening in the deserted plains seven or eight weeks ago, but his heart wasn't in it. Throughout the low conversation that followed, he only picked out the girl's name: probably Fera. Not long after, she took back the empty skin, mumbled a final goodbye and left discretely through the back.

Distantly, Harry could hear the bustle of taverns and bordellos along the street. The lively cacophony emerging from the dock's rowdy night-life was in stark contrast with the sombre atmosphere in the tent. Resigned, his legs hurting, he settled his head against the cold iron cage and closed his eyes.

_.-=A=-=C=-.**.-=O=-=D=-._

Covered in blood, Harry sat trembling alone in the cage.

-"It's not just accidents now, huh?" He mumbled.

_"Accidents!" screamed Voldemort, "accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and snivelled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!" _

He shook his head. The three deep gashes marring his back burned with every inch of movement.

Harry could still see clearly, apparently _It_ had not been damaged.

He did not notice Fera walking slowly towards the cage.

Thinking trough it, what was his reason for clinging to life so desperately?

_"You do care," said Dumbledore, "you care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it." _

_Do I still? _Harry thought. It's a great and unexpected gift to learn that even when purpose is lacking, you will do everything you possibly can to stay alive. Like finding something precious in the woods somewhere.

Shaking the cobwebs of shock and exhaustion, Harry finally saw Fera. The kind young woman approached and began to roughly treat his many wounds with water and boiled rags.

The pain was invigorating. Keeping him awake and focused.

_What do I care about?_

Thinking longingly of Hermione's _Dittany_ and Madam Pomfrey's matronly glares, Harry found his answer.

_Home! I want to find home!_

He smiled.

_Sure,_ he thought, contemplating his current condition, _find home... what could go wrong?_

"_So, tell me, what could go wrong?" Harry said._

"_Oh, nothing, you might feel a little bit poopy," said Luna as Hermione rolled her eyes, "but then we can just remove it with Murtlap."_

_It was a strange set of circumstances that had brought them all to this potentially revolutionary discovery. _

_Luna had found an old forgotten practice during her travels. Hermione had debated with her about Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Healing until pigs learned to fly. Harry had provided an unexpected practical idea to solve a problem. And Ron had been their go-to guy to source unusual supplies and tip the scale towards common sense._

"_We are sure a tattoo wouldn't work?" Ron asked again, his voice queasy._

"_Yes," said Hermione while chewing her nail, "There's no way it would constrain so much energy."_

"_Don't worry so much, it's not like it's the first time I use one of those," Harry said falsely cheerful._

_Picking up the black quill, Harry began to carefully trace over the template in front of him._

-"Of course!" Harry said, making Fera jump. Turning around and ignoring the painful jolts of his back, he looked at her hair. _There. _A small broach was attached to her bangs with a pin. _It could work... would it work?_

"_It works!" said Harry, removing his now blurry glasses._

"_Really?" Hermione, "Well of course it does." Luna, "Cheers mate!" Ron._

_After a brief celebration and much pestering and annotating of journals by Hermione, Harry asked: "So, when do we do the one that can make me fly?"_

"_Right you are," cheered Ron._

"_First of all," said Hermione, "that's not possible, you can't make a well of magic deep enough to have that type of results without severe side-effects."_

"_Keeling over and dying is a big side-effect," added Luna serenely._

"_Secondly," Hermione said with a crisp nod towards Luna, "I don't think it would be reasonable to add another runic well on yourself, even a very small one. A wizard can only concentrate so much magic, and our bodies needs a good amount flowing freely to be fully healthy and able to cast spells."_

"_Well... so much for tha-" said Ron._

"_And finally," Hermione added unperturbed, "it's not done yet. You'll need to keep using the quill for a few weeks until the scar stops disappearing. That was the whole point." _

-"Sorry Hermione," Harry whispered, "Fera?" He said.

The girl looked at him in concern.

-"Could I borrow your broach?" He asked, trying to look sane and reasonable while miming.

Startled, she took a step back. The blood was not helping.

-"Wait, please!" He begged, "I," he pointed at himself, "give it back," he joined his hands, gesturing the handing of something precious, "to you." He finished pointing at her.

Slowly, as if considering whether she was making the biggest mistake of her life, she unclasped her broach and gave it to him. She was perplexed when he took out the thin metal pin and gave the broach back immediately, making gestures to wait for the rest.

Harry contemplated what runes to use. Unfortunately, he had never bothered to learn many. (Sight/Perception) and (Clear/Unveiled), he knew very well, having carved small versions of them on his left shoulder blade. He only knew a handful of others well enough that he could write them from memory. He had to be exceedingly precise.

"_So, how precise would that be?" Harry asked._

"_Very, very precise... way too precise" said Hermione._

"_And you're supposed to do that with a knife, in one go?" said Ron discouraged._

_Hermione and Ron argued for some time until:_

"_Wait!" Said Harry, "the quill! Umbridge's quill!"_

"_Ah?" said Ron._

"_Of course! said Hermione, the law of large numbers! If you use a Blood Quill to draw over a perfect template hundreds of times, small variations will smooth out!"_

"_Yes, of course," said Ron rolling his eyes._

"_Sure, that's what I meant," said Harry._

"_Where could we find one?" asked Luna._

_They all looked at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' new number two._

"_Huh?" said Ron._

Long minutes passed. _There's only one sane solution,_ Harry thought feverishly. Slowly, He brought his right hand to the inner side of his left biceps. Using his pinky and ring fingers as levers to avoid shaking, he carved two small runes in a Granger-Lovegood Well Pattern onto his skin. Smiling, he handed the pin back to a flustered Fera and fell unconscious.

_.-=A=-=C=-.**.-=O=-=D=-._

The sound of a crowd roaring with laughter could be heard behind the canvas screen.

Looking through a tear in the fabric, he saw what was making the gathering so cheerful. Bulky, strong armed performers seemed to be juggling with two dwarves dressed as acrobats. They would throw them at the same time in each other's direction, catch them with a small bow, and then step back, letting the tension rise in the audience, before repeating the process again.

On the stands, Harry could see a few dozen people enjoying the demonstration. They guffawed, oohed mockingly and applauded each time a dwarf was thrown from one side of the pit to the other, some of them gulping down big tankards of ale all the while. For a wild moment, he thought he could make out the dishevelled form of Mundungus Fletcher among the crowd and his heart leapt. But the man raised his head to shout out something unintelligible and Harry realized he looked nothing like the infamous swindler. _If someone had told me one day the mere sight of that old crook could bring me so much hope, I would have had them transported to St Mungo's in a heartbeat, _Harry thought despondently.

Soon, the dubious spectacle was over and his cart was brought to the big enclosure. The opening of the 'stage' was coupled to his cage with thick ropes, matching perfectly so that Harry could not escape once his door was opened. Like the previous week, the lock and chains keeping it closed had been replaced with an inexpensive string that could be cut from a distance and two burly guards keeping watch. Unlike last time however, the same measures had not been applied to the other side of the arena.

_~'Laaaaadies and Geeeeeeentlemen,' _said the presenter, _'last week, eight men died at the claws of our most ferocious White Lion.' _The crowd cheered. _'But a man... one man decided to cling to his worthless existence like a desperate puppy.'_ Some people booed while those who missed it had their neighbours explain what happened. The Hrakkar had been a crowd favourite for many months, and his death at the hands of a scrawny frenzied slave was a big blow to Port-side's entertainment industry.

_~'Noooow,' _the presenter said, trying to appease the jeers, _'in response to this affront, returning to Port-side for the first time in three years, I give you: The Bruuuuuuuuuute' _

The crowd went silent as a big cloaked figure stepped out of a tent. Then it went wild.

_Fuck._


End file.
